Chapter 5: The Persistent Widow. As the months passed, Patrick continued to improve his Gaelic. Although he wasn't completely fluent, he could communicate quite well with the other servants. One evening, Patrick rendezvoused with some of the other shepherds whose flocks were grazing nearby. He did this whenever it was practical, as it provided a welcome break from his solitude. This particular evening, one of the servants from the master's house had prepared a nice meal over the campfire.
Patrick chatted with various shepherds, then noticed Sid approaching the camp. "Sid, how good it is to see you, dear brother!" Patrick called out. He ran over and gave Sid a warm embrace and the kiss of peace. The two men grabbed bowls of stew from the campfire and caught up on their news. As they were eating, Patrick mentioned to Sid, "When I was first brought to Ireland, I was kept at the house of someone who was supposed to be a king.
It wasn't far from the place where Donovan purchased me." "Yes, I remember the area," Sid said as he dipped a crust of bread in his stew. "Well, my question is, was he the king of all of Ireland?" "Hardly," Sid replied, smiling. "In fact, there is no king over all of Ireland. From what I've been told, Ireland has traditionally been divided into five main federations." "Five federations?" Patrick responded. He washed down his stew with a long drink from his water bottle.
"What are the names of these federations?" "Well, there's Ulster in the north. Then there's Connaught in the west. That's where we are now." Sid paused and stroked his bearded chin as he thought for a moment. "Let me see. There's also Meath in the central east and Leinster in the southeast. The place you were first taken was in Leinster. The name of the fifth federation, which is in the south, slips my mind. Oh, I remember now.
It's Munster." "So then each federation has its own king?" Patrick asked as he walked with Sid over to the fire to dish out a second bowl of stew. "No, actually, even the federations aren't ruled by single kings," Sid explained. "Rather, each federation is divided into two hundred or so tuata. I'm not sure what our word for tuata would be. I guess you could call them clans or tribes. Anyway, each tuata has its own king." "So then there are a thousand or so kings in Ireland?" Patrick blurted out in astonishment.
"Yes, I suppose you could say that. But maybe I'm using the wrong word, calling them kings. The Irish call them by the name of rhe. Perhaps rhe is better translated as chieftain." Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by a fight that had broken out between two of the shepherds. The two men drew out daggers from their belts and circled one another, occasionally lunging forward with their knives. One of them probably would have killed the other if the other shepherds hadn't stopped them.
"What was that all about?" Patrick asked Sid. "Well, I'm not sure, but I think it was over one of the servant girls. As you've probably observed, the Irish are rather hot-tempered people. I see fights all the time. Actually, the master doesn't care if the men fight. He just doesn't want anyone to be seriously injured or killed. After all, slaves are valuable property. That's why the shepherds broke the fight up." "What if they had been free men?" Patrick asked in astonishment.
"If they had been free men, they would have probably fought to the death," Sid replied as he walked back to the log the two of them had been sitting on. "Are the women just as hot-tempered?" Patrick inquired. "Perhaps more so. I've seen some pretty ugly fights between some of the women. Everyone in this country seems to think that fighting is something good. I'm afraid they have no concept of turning the other cheek, as Jesus taught.
In fact, from what I've been told, in the olden days, mothers would give their baby boys their first food on the tips of their father's swords." "What was the purpose of that?" "I guess it was so the young children would grow up thinking that a sword is something good. You see, the Irish war against each other far more than they war against the British. In fact, the Irish even carry their wars with them to their graves." "What do you mean?" Patrick asked as he cleaned some mud off of his sandals.
"Well, they often bury their kings, or, er, chieftains, with a sword or spear in their hands." "Have you ever seen one of their battles?" Patrick asked. "Aye, that I have. In fact, I've seen several of them. I still remember the first one I witnessed. It was a few years ago, after I had been sold to Milchu as a slave. I was out with a flock of sheep, not too far from where his cattle were grazing. Suddenly, I heard the strange, piercing sound of battle horns, followed by a deafening din.
The sheep panicked and ran, and I immediately dashed for the cover of a nearby thicket. Suddenly, I saw a band of warriors emerge over a nearby hilltop. They had washed their hair in some type of white substance and then pulled their hair up to dry into stiff white spikes. They looked frighteningly hideous. I could see that they created the loud din I was hearing by beating their swords against their tall wooden shields. Most of the men had swords, but some of them were armed with spears or slings.
A few of them rode horses." "Did they see you?" Patrick asked. "No, apparently not. Besides, they were interested in stealing cattle, not hunting down slaves. Most of the herdsmen fled in fear at the sight of the warriors. Those who resisted were quickly slain. Then the warriors on horseback rode ahead of the frightened cattle and turned them in the direction they wanted. It was all over in an hour or so.
The men stole about fifty head of cattle." "Did Milchu summon the authorities when he found out?" "Ha ha ha, what authorities?" Sid roared with laughter. "The Irish have no concept of societal wrongs, as we Romans do," he explained. "If someone steals cattle back in Britain, the owner will normally report it to the soldiers, and they will arrest the thief and recover the stolen cattle, right?" Patrick agreed. "We view theft as a public or societal wrong," Sid continued. "But not the Irish.
They see it only as a personal wrong. It's no one else's business but the person whose goods were stolen." "How strange," Patrick interjected. "So what did Milchu do?" "Well, some months later, he and his kinsmen raided the man who had stolen his cattle. They stole about seventy head of cattle from him. Several men were killed in the battle." "Did that end the matter?" "No. The man who had first raided Milchu staged a later raid to pay back Milchu for stealing his cattle. The raids keep going back and forth.
I'm glad that I'm a shepherd and can keep away from the whole thing. The raiders don't seem interested in stealing sheep, only in rustling cattle." "That's insane," Patrick declared in disgust. "No wonder we call them barbarians." "Oh, the Irish aren't all that bad," Sid replied with his usual smile. "For one thing, they have a wonderful sense of humor, and they're extremely hospitable. They're also excellent farmers, shepherds, and herdsmen.
And have you noticed what exquisite craftsmen they are?" "No, I guess I haven't. Since I spend most of my time with the sheep, I haven't really noticed any of their wares." "Well, tomorrow I'm going to be accompanying Milchu's son, Donovan, to market. I'll ask if you can come along to help carry the things he buys.
Then you'll get to see some examples of their craftsmanship for yourself." Donovan gave his permission, and the next day the three men set off for a nearby market, leading some cattle and sheep with them. "What are the cattle and sheep for?" Patrick asked. "Is Donovan going to sell them at market?" "No, not exactly," Sid replied. "He'll use them to trade for the goods he wants. You see, the Irish have no coins or other money, so they use cattle, sheep, or slaves as a medium of exchange.
In Britain, an item might be priced at ten denarii. But here, the same item might be priced at six heifers. Something else might be valued at two male slaves." Patrick was quiet for a moment. He then asked hesitantly, "You don't suppose that Donovan intends to barter us for some other article?" Sid couldn't help but laugh at Patrick's question. "No, we're too valuable to Milchu as shepherds. He's not going to trade us for a wagon or something. You needn't worry." Before long, the men reached the market.
Patrick examined some beautiful ornamental glass and silver plates. "These people really are skilled," he commented. "Look at these intricate designs. How imaginative they are." "Yes, in fact their goods are prized throughout Europe. Irish merchants sell them in places like Gaul and Spain. I understand you can even find them in London." "Really? I thought the only time the Irish came to Britain was to raid," Patrick replied as he studied an ornate silver plate at one of the market stalls.
"That's because about the only Irishmen who come to the west coast of Britain are raiders. But most Irishmen aren't pirates. They have their merchants, just as we Romans do." The men looked around for several hours. Eventually, Donovan purchased some knives, enameled pots, and various food supplies. Sid and Patrick carried the bulk of his purchases back home. The month slowly passed. One morning in late spring, Patrick saw Sid from a distance and ran over to him.
"Do you know what today is?" Patrick asked excitedly. Sid thought for a moment. "Um, no, I guess not. What day is it?" "Today marks two years since I started praying to God for deliverance. You said that God took two years to answer your prayer, so today should be my day." "Well, just remember," Sid cautioned, "that his answer to me was no. It may be the same for you, so don't get too excited. Listen, let's try to rendezvous tonight so we can talk more about this." Patrick prayed and fasted throughout the day.
That night, he was rather glum when he met Sid. "Nothing," he said, throwing up his arms in despair. "God still hasn't given me an answer." Sid put his arm around Patrick in a fatherly way. "That probably means that the answer is no. Remember, I told you not to get your hopes up." Patrick mumbled something under his breath and then went off to bed. The next morning, he was uncommonly quiet at breakfast. Sid finally broke the silence. "Listen, I need to move my flock so I can't stay any longer.
But I just want to say that I know just how you feel, Patrick. I felt the same way myself when God's answer was no. But sometimes we just have to accept things the way they are." "No, I can't accept that I'm going to spend the rest of my life here as a slave," Patrick countered, raising his voice. "I can't believe I'll never see my father and mother again. I don't think that God has said no to me. Maybe He did to you, but He hasn't to me." "Calm down, Patrick," Sid coaxed. "I was only trying to help.
Perhaps you're right. Maybe God hasn't given you an answer yet. So what are you going to do? Keep praying?" Patrick thought for a moment. "Yes, it's the only thing I can do. I think God's testing me to see if I'll continue to pray and fast. So I'll keep on praying and fasting just the way I've been doing." "Good. Do as you wish. But just remember, His answer might still be no.
In all the years I've been here, I've never heard of any British slaves being rescued from Ireland." "Maybe that's because they didn't pray long enough," Patrick quickly responded. "Or often enough. I may seem unrealistic to you, but I still believe that if I keep knocking, God will finally open the door." The months and years tediously dragged on. Three years. Four years. Still, there was no answer from God. Yet Patrick kept praying and fasting.
Now that he was fluent in Gaelic, Patrick often witnessed to some of the other shepherds and slaves. They listened politely but inevitably would reply, "If this Jesus of yours is so powerful, why are you here as a slave? It looks like our gods are more powerful than yours." Although this was discouraging to Patrick, he didn't stop witnessing. "Patrick, are you still praying for deliverance?" Recognizing the voice immediately, Patrick whirled around excitedly. "Sid, it's good to see you again.
Yes, I'm still praying for deliverance, and I'm still praying at least a hundred times a day." Sid laughed good-naturedly. "You really are a persistent widow. How long has it been now? Four years?" "Four and a half years, to be exact." "And you still can't accept your life in Ireland," Sid shook his head. "Well, I wouldn't say that. As you know, when I was first captured, I felt nothing but hatred and disdain for these barbaric people.
However, as I've grown in my love for God, I've also grown in my love for the Irish. I've come to appreciate both the strengths and the weaknesses of their culture. I realize now that the Irish love their wives and husbands, their children and parents, just as we Romans do. They cry no less when a loved one dies. They rejoice just as much at weddings and other happy events. They're our brothers. Still, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in Ireland. I miss home.
I miss my parents." "So you're going to keep praying?" "Yes, I'm going to keep praying until God is so sick of hearing me that He'll get me out of Ireland just to have some rest." Sid chuckled. "When I first met you, you were a boy. But you've become quite a man, Patrick. God has transformed you from an arrogant, high-born teenager into a man of God, a man who loves his fellow humans. From a proud master, you've become a humble servant.
You're a real man of the kingdom, Patrick, and a man of prayer." Patrick smiled and hugged Sid. "I think you exaggerate a bit. But yes, God has been at work in my life. I can clearly see that now." More months slowly rolled by. Patrick had now been in Ireland for five years. Each time he saw Sid, Sid would inevitably ask him, "Are you still praying to be rescued, Patrick?" "Yes, I'm still knocking. And if I keep knocking, God will finally open the door." And God finally did.
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